where the light is
by that dark-haired girl
Summary: "You and your ethical obligations! If you were a Slytherin we wouldn't be having this problem." "And if you were a Hufflepuff you'd have killed them all with kindness by now." Pansy and Justin, the year after the war.
1. this woman's work

Mondays are one of the busiest days to be working at the Leaky Cauldron, and Pansy always has her work cut out for her. There are tables to attend to, drinks to make, and all the while she has to keep her tongue in check whenever one of the patrons makes some snide allusion as to where her "loyalties lie."

Lately, these comments are less tear-inducing and more grating on her nerves. If she could she'd not only quit, but hex the eyebrows off of every customer who questioned her motives right before she went. But she _needs_ this job, no matter what she tells Draco or her mother or herself, so when Hannah asks her to do something – "Justin's just over in the corner, Pansy, could you take him his dinner?" – Pansy does as she's asked and picks up the plate from the window to the kitchen. No use in delaying the inevitable – she's learned that the hard way.

When she first sees him, she thinks of the interview he and Penelope Clearwater gave in _The Daily Prophet_ not long after the prisoners of Azkaban had been released; she thinks of the photographs that accompanied the lengthy article of a pair of near-skeletons, their eyes unnaturally large in their sockets, their skin stretched tight across their bones. She remembers seeing him in the halls at Hogwarts and the way he looks now nearly makes her heart stop. Four months after Azkaban, even after the treatments he undoubtedly went through at St. Mungo's, Justin Finch-Fletchley is still unbelievably _thin_. He is only eighteen, but there is already grey streaking through his curly hair and lines on his face that would be commonplace on a man ten years older.

She coughs when she stops at his table, trying to get his attention, and he doesn't look up as he begins shuffling some of his textbooks off to the side. Pansy sets down the plate, watching as he tries to neaten up his booth so that he can eat without getting crumbs all over his paperwork. The tabletop is an absolute _mess_; a number of papers are scattered everywhere, and a half dozen books are open both on the table and the empty seat next to him. There are notes and annotations scrawled in the margins of _everything_ and it makes Pansy think of the dreadful week she spent in fifth year preparing for her OWLs.

When his eyes finally flick up to meet hers, he seems surprised. Pansy knows she's fallen far, and after the day she's had, she knows it shows. Her hair is falling out of the bun she'd pulled it into that morning and she is suddenly hyperaware of how dirty she is: the burn marks on her apron, the coffee stain on her blouse. She can already feel the residue of the day settling into her skin.

"Homework?" she asks, trying to be polite, and he shrugs.

"No, my, um…my placement exams are tomorrow," Justin confesses, gesturing towards the clutter around him like it explains everything. "I needed to go someplace where I could think without getting distracted."

"And a noisy pub makes for a _perfect_ studying environment."

If he's offended by her cheek, Justin doesn't let it show. "It's better than my place, at any rate. Ernie's just discovered the magic of surround-sound stereo and won't stop blasting his music. I really, really regret getting him that Queen CD for his birthday, because I seriously think if I have to hear 'Don't Stop Me Now' one more time I'm probably going to lose my mind."

It's like gibberish, almost, or as if he switched from English to Hungarian mid-sentence. Pansy has no idea what a "Queen CD" is or who "Surround-Sound Stereo" might be, but she nods her head as if she does and hopes that Justin won't say anything further. He doesn't, and goes on to curse the complexity of one of the sample cases he's studying from.

"How can you think that's hard?" she asks incredulously. "It's a simple matter of property ownership – van Nortwick spells it out _very_ clear, look, I'll show you…"

As she leans over to point out the proper paragraph in his textbook, Justin gives her a disbelieving look and asks, "How do you _know_ that?"

She blushes, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention he is paying her. "My aunt, she was an Advocate. She, er, she got certified when I was little, and I spent the whole summer reviewing with her. I guess some of it got stuck in my head, you know?"

"Oh," he says, accompanied by a little shake of his head. He picks his sandwich up from the plate. "Thanks, Pansy."

"Anything else I can get for you?"

"Not really." Justin takes a bite and swallows. "But would you be up for sticking around for a bit? Maybe help me study?"

The invitation is obviously not planned, and even he looks shocked by it; there's a moment where worry flickers in his eyes, like she might actually say yes. Pansy can't blame him: there's a split-second where she actually does consider taking the empty seat across from Justin and spending the rest of her evening with him, but then her father's disapproving frown swims behind her eyes and she remembers where she is, _who_ she is. The noise beyond the booth grows louder.

"Sorry, I can't. Hannah needs me on the floor."

Pansy rushes away before he can say anything else, anxiously brushing her hands on her apron as she ducks back behind the bar. Another customer asks her to pour him another drink and as she refills his mug of mead, she glances back towards the corner where Justin is sitting. His head is once again bent over his books and he is not looking anywhere near her direction.

_He doesn't matter_, she thinks, _He's a __**Muggleborn**__, he doesn't __**matter**__._

A hollow feeling fills her chest. The realization doesn't hurt, but it doesn't feel _good_, either.

* * *

Not quite back, but not quite gone, either. :) Expect thirteen parts, about 1000 words each, each one inspired by a prompt on the livejournal community **rarepair_shorts**.


	2. yesterday's papers

It's a cool September evening when Justin storms into the Leaky, slamming the door behind him so hard that Pansy's head snaps up at the noise. He strides over to the bar and pulls out the stool nearest her with such force that he actually knocks it backwards; Pansy closes the till she's been counting as he rights his chair, grumbling and scowling as he takes a seat and drops an armful of crumpled magazines on the counter.

"Ogden's," he orders, "Straight. And leave the bottle."

Pansy smoothes out her skirt and complies, glancing at him over her shoulder as she grabs a clean glass from the space near the sink, a dusty bottle from the bottom shelf. Justin doesn't acknowledge her presence as she pours, just stares straight ahead at the mirrored wall behind her with a shuttered-off look as he immediately drains the glass she'd set in front of him. His hands are shaking as he grips the bottle by the neck to fill it again and Pansy eyes him curiously, worriedly. This isn't the Justin who comes into a noisy pub to study; this isn't the handsome, joking young man who's spent the past two months leaving Pansy decent tips and teasing Hannah over drinks long after the pub's officially closed for the night. He is anxious and angry, overflowing with the feeling, and Pansy leans against the bar, asking without thinking, "So who spit in your cauldron?"

She's trying to be friendly, aloof. He blinks at her. "What did you say?" He's defensive, demanding. "_What did you say to me?_"

"Nothing, honest." Justin is setting his shoulders, squaring them like he's preparing for an argument, but Pansy doesn't shrink back. "You're just – you're not usually like this. Did something happen at the Ministry?"

Justin only stares at her in response, and within seconds all the fire he'd been building up seems to burn out; he deflates, slumping forward against the bar, threading his fingers through his hair, and for the first time Pansy actually looks at the papers he'd been carrying. There's about twenty copies of the same issue of _Witch Weekly_, all bearing the less-than-clever title _**"Cheating Clearwater: Britain's Golden Girl Caught In The Act!"**_ Unsurprisingly, Rita Skeeter's name is the one gracing the byline. The cover picture is grainy, taken from a distance, but the couple embracing in a building's entry alcove is unmistakably Justin and Penelope Clearwater. He must have bought the whole stack off the newsvendor outside the Apothecary.

Justin scrubs a hand over his face and doesn't look at her. "You about know Penelope, right?" he asks, voice low, and Pansy nods because who doesn't, these days? She reads the papers, she knows the story. "She and I – we, we got close. Back then. And you don't even – _they_ don't – they've got _no idea_ –"

He breaks off and takes a long drink from his glass. Pansy refills it without being asked.

"It's _disgusting_," he says, pushing the topmost copy of _Witch Weekly_ toward her with obvious contempt. "She's getting _married_, and all they can talk about is whether or not _I'm_ going to wreck the wedding."

There's a moment where Justin looks like he's about to say something else, bur then seems to think the better of it and focuses his attention on finishing the contents of his glass. He's drunk so much in such a short time Pansy's a little surprised he hasn't fallen off his barstool, and when he moves again for the bottle she slides it out of his reach, ignoring the reproachful look he gives her for her trouble.

"Listen," she says, "I know you're a Hufflepuff, and raking up trouble with others is _terribly_ out of your comfort zone, but if it's bothering you this much you need to sue the pants off these people. Slander – or libel, _whatever_, defamation of character's a big thing, nowadays, and Rita Skeeter's going after everyone she can now that Hermione Granger's officially taken the 'Golden Trio' off the table."

He looks again like he wants to say something to her, but only stares down at the pile of magazines at his elbow.

"But what do I know? I'm just the hired help. And anyway," she admits, "It's not like _you're_ the only one she's gone after," and Justin looks up at that, surprised. She's not – Pansy fought for Potter in the end and submitted to everything the Ministry asked of her after her family fled the country, but she still finds _Traitor_ scratched into the wood of her door some mornings, still gets death glares from customers as she takes their orders. This is the reason she barely leaves the Alley, this is the reason she's got anti-theft charms on all of her belongings and three different locks on the door.

"You? But I thought –"

"That was ages ago. Used up all my usefulness at fourteen." She gives him a wry smile. "Turns out I made a much better subject than I ever did a source."

He has no answer to that, and she doesn't expect him to. Silence pools between them as she sets the Ogden's back behind the bar, and Pansy waves his hands away as he reaches for his wallet. "This one's on me," she tells him, and he nods at her, understanding. "Don't get used to it," she adds, and he laughs.

A week later, when she's bored and buying a copy of _Amortentia_, she sees it: stacked amongst the glossy copies of _International Quidditch_ and _Kneazle Fancy_, _Witch Weekly_ is wrapped up and sealed by a thirteen-page retraction, hiding the cover and binding the pages shut until the purchaser reads it entirely. The newsvendor grumbles at her when he sees what she's looking at, passing over her change and muttering about how "spells like that are bad for business," but all she can think of is how out of everyone, _everyone_, he listened to _her_.

Pansy hides her laugh behind her hand.


	3. runs in the family

"…and remember the struggles of the blood – it is the nature of those of lesser standing to want to destroy what is not theirs, what they can never have. Fifteen generations of pure blood flows through your veins. Never forget, my darling girl: you are the daughter of a noble house."

Auror Proudfoot stops reading and Pansy shifts uncomfortably in her hard-backed chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap. The Auror Office is crowded, narrow cubicles laid out like honeycomb across the bustling floor. Proudfoot's workspace is tucked into the corner farthest from the false windows, dim but not dark, crowded with filing cabinets and press clippings tacked to the walls. A cluttered desk half-buried under paperwork separates them, and he sets down the letter with a disinterested look.

"Charming," he says, and Pansy closes her eyes. "Anything else?"

She blinks. "I don't… what more do you want? I – I turned in the letter! He mentions hiding near Innsbruck! Isn't that enough?"

"You waited two weeks to bring it in. How do I know this isn't meant to throw us off your father's trail?"

Proudfoot is so sure of his words, so serious, and the thought of it almost makes Pansy laugh: her father's been on the run since May, and her mother left for France three days after Hogwarts, scooping up Pansy's younger brother and all the gold she could carry before sweeping off to Montmartre for the duration, leaving Pansy behind. This is the first she's heard from either of her parents. She's had to survive on her own.

"I was torn," she tells him honestly, "It's…he's my father. I didn't know what to do."

Proudfoot eyes her suspiciously over the rim of his bifocals and Pansy straightens her shoulders, looks him dead in the eyes. "I'll look into it," he tells her with a sigh, and when she rises to leave, adds, "Don't get your hopes up on leniency because of this. Remember, Miss Parkinson: he's wanted for a reason."

The Auror Office is a mess to navigate, and in her effort to leave she sidesteps files and people and what she thinks might be an enchanted ottoman running circles in the walkway in her effort to make it to the main door. At one point she makes a sharp turn, hoping to avoid a group of Hit Wizards avoiding their paperwork and playing 'bounce-the-butterbeer-cap' off one of the many "Wanted" posters, only to collide, head-first, into the hard chest of one of the Advocates heading down the opposite way.

"Pansy? Oh, _Jesus_, I'm so sorry –" a familiar voice says somewhere above her, and she cringes inwardly from her place on the floor. _Of course_ it would be _Justin _she ran into today. And _of course_ she'd hit him hard enough to fall flat on her arse. Justin holds out his hand to help her to her feet and she accepts it grudgingly, dusting herself off. She nearly keels back over when she realizes who is standing next to him.

A little older, a little greyer, Amaryllis Montgomery looks almost the same as she did the last time Pansy saw her, back when she was still Amaryllis Parkinson and her father was throwing everything she'd once owned into a bonfire. She'd managed to salvage part of the photograph from her commencement ceremony, taken at the luncheon the Inn held in honor of all the freshly-graduated Advocates; Pansy kept it hidden in her bedside drawer for years.

"Madam Montgomery, this is my friend –" Justin starts, and Amaryllis shakes her head.

"I know who she is." Her voice is terse, clipped. "Hello, Pansy."

"Auntie…I mean, it's good to see you, Madam. I…I was sorry to hear about your son," Pansy says, and despite Amaryllis's distrustful look, she means it – werewolf attacks are nasty affairs; at his age, Ben Montgomery would have been lucky to survive it. Maybe it's luckier for his family that he didn't.

"Thank you." Amaryllis nods stiffly, then turns to Justin. "I'll see you next week. Bring the case files we talked about and I'll help you get started."

Justin thanks her and shakes her hand, and Amaryllis Montgomery leaves without another word to anyone, disappearing into a nearby office and shutting the door. Pansy breathes in relief; she isn't sure what else she'd expected.

The Auror block is connected to the Department of Magical Law by a long hallway, leading to the elevator's vestibule and eventually, the exit to the main Atrium. The walk has never seemed longer than it does right now. Justin falls into step beside her, waiting with her for the next elevator when they finally get to the hallway's end.

"I didn't know you two knew each other."

"I told you – my aunt's an Advocate."

He gives her a strange, sideways look. "She's never mentioned –"

"She left when I was five. I haven't seen her since."

"So this was –"

"The first time, yes," she interrupts impatiently, jabbing her thumb against the call button. "Mum used to keep tabs on her, so she'd have something to cover for at luncheons –not _everyone _had delightful little stories about secret torture chambers under the library. _Some of us_ had blood-traitor aunties with hero complexes just _ripe_ for gossip."

She hits the button again and he grips her by the wrist to stop her.

"My aunt, she…she had these records, you know? Stupid, plate-sized things – _Muggle music_." She sniffs, staring down at the floor, the shiny tips of her shoes. She can feel Justin's eyes on her and can't bring herself to look at him, not while the weight of the whole day is collapsing on her. "Paul Simon. She…she used to play them when she studied, and Papa would always complain about the noise. But I liked them, so she'd turn the music down, but not completely off."

The elevator comes and his hand slides from her wrist. She steps on and doesn't look up until the doors close.


End file.
